Still Life With Cranes
by Espantalho
Summary: Jonathan Crane in a seven part story. Contains: Slight AU, slash, and some big words! Rating for themes and some swearing.
1. Foreword and Some Notes

Still Life With Cranes: The Foreword!

**Hello! You're not going to understand this whole story if you don't STOP for a sec and let me explain it a bit :) One second of your time, I promise.**

* * *

Point 1 as follows: 

This is a work in progress. Some of it I don't actually like much. Actually, most of it I don't like at all and serves as a place holder/plot filler for the parts I DO like. This was my very first fanfiction and as such, is pretty terrible.

This is a SEVEN part story…there are TWO parts that I have not written. Each chapter may stand alone, but sort of are entwined with the others. They are in order, chronologically, and the two chapters that are not completed won't put too many holes in the story. I will put in a little ditty when we get to these chapters regarding the basic plot of the chapter. THIS IS NOT THE STORY, please don't review and say "WTF! This isn't well written/a story/whatever" because I know that :)

Parts missing: Chapter 1: The Rock and Chapter 3: Paper Crane. Both are in the works, I assure you.

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Point 2 below: 

This story is sort of A/U. For those of you who don't know what "AU" means: A/U means "Author's Universe", basically noting that the author takes certain liberties with the plot and the characters.

In this case, I've messed with the very end of the movie. We operate under the assumption that Crane has not been captured and sent to Arkham, that he's not more insane than he was because of his own fear gas, and that he isn't really "at large". He's still a fear-inspiring figure to Batman, Gordon, and Rachel, but he's not a threat to the general populace. Since Ducard's operation failed he has a new job, not described here.

In this story: CRANE HAS A BOYFRIEND. He's gay. M/M. Slash. HAHAHA! Nothing too explicit, as I'm dealing with their emotions, not their bodies. Unfortunately. Moving on! His boyfriend's not from the movie. Beware! An O/C as well! The o/c is the secondary character, and he doesn't show up. Much.

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POINT 3: 

Story randomly switches narrators from chapter to chapter. Narration will be noted in the Author's Note at the beginning of the chapter.

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I'm done rambling! Go ahead and (click). 


	2. Chapter One Filler

**(This chapter has not been completed)**

Synopsis for what will be happening in Chapter 1:

Set in Crane's undergraduate/graduate university days, Chapter 1 will deal with events leading up to him rationalizing everything with fear. He deals with a substandard psychology teacher, attempts to fit in with other students, and tries really hard to avoid his high-school era tormenters, who are attending the same college and who are back for more. Their names are only Deke and Obberton, and they show up later on in the story. At the end of this chapter, Jonathan gets raped by the above offenders. You heard me. This chapter ends with Jonathan's realization that there truly is nothing but fear, and with his creation of the mask. He declares that this mask is "all I'll ever need".

**Chapter 2 is actually completed. Please click!**


	3. A Meeting of the Minds

**A Meeting of the Minds**

_Author's Note: This is my most AU chapter of the bunch, and the one I loathe the most. This shows how Jonathan and Michael get together, and is told from Michael's point of view._

I grimace as I yank the splinter out of my thumb. God, these tables are old. My name is Michael. I tend a bar in East Gotham, and this is where our story – Mine and Jonathan's – began. It was such an innocent meeting, and it brought our lives to completion. A 'meeting of the minds', our mutual friend innocently called it later on. It was.

* * *

(flashback) 

"Come on!"

"No!"

"Michaeeeeel!"

"I do not want to go to a dance club for the night! I have to close up here, count down the till, and sweep! Then I'm going to bed!"

I was really, really tired. As luck would have it, and I say this with the utmost sincerity, my good friend Kris was on about her new dance club, how it was the newest thing and I had no life and how was I supposed to meet a nice boy this way, always working all the time, blah blah blah. She was a pushy little thing. Eventually, I gave in to my ringing headache and agreed to accompany her.

She had said earlier on that she wanted me to meet 'someone'. She said it with a nasty gleam in her eye, so suffice to assume that she's setting me up again. I sighed melodramatically as I adjusted my shirt in the mirror. I hated clubbing. Mostly because I hated the people she tried to set me up with, stupid, fashionable divas who never had their head on straight in the first place. This time, she assured me, he'd be different.

I walked by her house and picked her up on the way to the train station. I'm always nervous before going out on a date, even one of these 'dates'. She noticed me sweating and laughed. I hate that laugh.

"Don't worry, Mikey, this boy's just keyed to you."

"Yeah, right. What does he do? Nothing? Sit around on his arse all day while servants show him the newest clothes?"

"Actually, he's a scientist." A scientist! The thought stopped my thought process cold, though my legs made an admirable showing of keeping in stride with hers. What the hell. Where did she dig up a scientist? Visions of nasally, pasty little men in lab coats danced in my head.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course…actually, he's already got his master's degree in his field." Oh great, so he's old, too. Wonderful. Am I too picky, I wonder? Would it be too much trouble for her to find someone that was smart, handsome, and around my age? I pondered these woes as we found our seats on the rail.

"What's he look like?"

She turned from her window seat to grin at me. "You'll like him." And she would say no more. I had doubts about her abilities to figure out just what I liked in a guy, but she seemed so sure of herself that I decided not to press it further. Let the headache wait until I actually get there.

* * *

On Weston and 3rd, we exited. The street was still bustling and alive, even at 10 o'clock. "Here it is!" Kris jubilantly proclaimed. _The Mad Hatter_. Erk. 

Inside, the club was dark and secretive. And _loud. _The bass beat throbbed through the air as the bodies swayed on the dance floor. To our immediate left, there was a full bar and some tables. I immediately labeled this area my 'safe zone'. Hooray for firewater. Hooray for gin and tonic! Kris knocked me out of my reverie.

"Start looking for him!"

"You wouldn't tell me what he looks like!" She completely ignored me as she stared impressively around the room. I sighed and scratched the back of my head.

"Stop that! He'll think you have lice!" Again, sigh.

Suddenly she was waving wildly in the direction of a table by the bar. "Jonathan!" She laughed as she ran up to the as-yet-unknown entity at the table. He stood up and tolerated her massive bear hug, which she gave with much enthusiasm and much squealing. Then she grabbed him by the hand and dragged him the few feet to where I was standing.

"Michael Alden, meet Dr. Jonathan Crane."

Oh, God. I was shaking hands with the most beautiful man I had ever seen (well, that wasn't in the movies). He gave me a small smile as he shook my hand, adjusting his skewed glasses with his other.

"I've heard a lot about you." He had a soft voice, very precise. Musical. I was hardly registering the voice, however. I was still on his eyes. A perfect, penetrating blue, a gorgeous shape; not terribly slanted but just oriental enough to captivate you. His glasses were stylish and couldn't seem to stay straight on his face, as he was forever adjusting them.

Kris elbowed me in the side and hissed, "Stop drooling!" in my ear. I blushed and ducked my head, but if Dr. Jonathan Crane had heard the comment, he had enough grace to let it pass.

"Well, boys, I'm off to the Sierra Club for some drinks!" EH? "Have a good time!" Oh no.

An hour later we were deep in conversation. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. The high cheekbones, the thin nose, the pouty lips. Longish brown hair, still stylish and looking very nice to run the fingers through. Eep! No bad thoughts yet, especially when he had an excruciatingly pleasing way of holding my eyes with his while he took a sip of his drink, managing a small smile while doing so. He was undeniably very skinny, though I would have to get him out in broad daylight to see just how thin. _Well, he's gorgeous,_ I thought_, But how smart is he?_

I abandoned the topic we were on (the way space heaters smell when you first turn them on) and abruptly switched to what I knew of him.

"Kris says you have a master's degree already…?" As I said it, I couldn't believe it. He couldn't be more than 23!

"Ah. Yes. I graduated from West Gotham School of Medicine two years ago, actually."

"What is it you do? She has the impression that you're a kind of scientist."

"Really?" He gave me a suddenly penetrating look.

"Yes." I was surprised by his expression, which was suddenly wary. He smiled then and dispelled the mood.

"Well, she must be talking about the specific field of research I was pursuing. I'm a psychiatrist, actually."

"Ah, so you get to call yourself 'Doctor' then," I smiled, teasing him gently. He ducked his head, chuckling.

"Yes, I can if I really want to," he made a face into his drink, "But I'll save that for if I can get a better job. Right now I'm on ambulance rotation, just trying to pay the bills."

We chatted long into the night, the samba rolling over the table and through the bar. He was 25, in fact, and obviously ridiculously smart. He talked about his specific field of psychiatry for a few minutes –something to do with phobias- and then neatly switched the conversation back on myself. There wasn't much about me to tell, but I did my best to make it entertaining, rewarded with his soft laugh or a jaunty remark every once in a while.

At one o'clock he sighed, looked at his watch, and told me that he had to leave or he'd be too tired to work in the morning. I accompanied him on the rail to his stop, far northeast of the center of the city. I looked around the neighborhood while he was working on the seatbelt system (it was automatic and highly lethal) and thought that it wasn't that much different than my own. I got up as he did and mustered my courage.

"So, um…did you want to…I don't know, do something this weekend?" He looked at me for a moment through his pretty eyes and then smiled suddenly.

"Yes." And he got off the train. I dropped back into my seat as the engine rumbled again and Gotham flew by and allowed myself the flood of joy and satisfaction that I had been holding back all night. The only drawback of the evening was that I would have to tell Kris that she was right.

* * *

Predictably, she danced around me singing "I told ya so! I told ya so!" I endured it for a few minutes and asked her for his phone number. She gave it to me with much grinning and much prodding of the stomach muscles. I called Jonathan the next day. He seemed positively delighted to hear from me, though his voice sounded strained and tired. We grew closer over dinner tables and club music during the next few weeks. He told me more about his life and I did the same. Though seeming genuinely happy with the relationship, he was guarded. Eventually he confessed on his own that he had a hard time trusting people. I told him I would kill anyone who tried to hurt him, and if I ever made him uncomfortable to just say so. He twined his arms around my neck and whispered, "Thank you" in my ear.

One day, he called me and wanted to know if I could ice skate.

"Sure. How come?"

He paused, seeming slightly embarrassed. "I'm terrible at it."

I laughed into the phone, imagining his face, smiling slightly though he was chagrined at his inability to do something.

"So, the good doctor has his limits! Ladies and gentlemen of the tabloids, record this conversation!"

He chuckled into the phone and threatened me with various psychiatric procedures. After a few minutes of good-natured teasing, I told him to meet me at the ice rink on Saturday.

Saturday night fell clear and crisp. I grabbed my fall over-things and my ice skates and rode the rail to the rink. When I got there, he was already standing nervously to one side. Once again I marveled at how thin he was. He noticed me watching him and waved to me, a small smile spreading on his lips. I waved back and ran down to meet him. We strapped on our skates and hit the ice. He really wasn't bad at all, I thought as I watched him in front of me. He was naturally graceful and balanced anyway, and it translated well onto the ice.

Suddenly, he startled at something on the edge of the rink and twisted around sharply to look at it. In doing so, he lost his balance and I reached forward and put my hands on his hips to steady him.

"What's the matter? What's wrong?" Concerned, I glanced to the side of the rink where he had shied and saw nothing. I looked back down at him. He was breathing hard and his eyes were wide as he looked for the phantom that hunted him.

"I thought – I mean – Nothing…sorry." He looked up at me and chuckled, "Guess I just freaked out there. Nice catch." I smiled down at him and after a final look at the side board, he grabbed my hands and pulled me back out onto the ice. I dropped back to skate just behind him and planned my next move. As he looked back at me questioningly, I resettled my hands lightly on his hip bones. He stiffened for a second, then relaxed against me, leaning back into my grip.

The next night I spontaneously called him up and invited him out for the world's best cake – the traveling salesman was right up Hampton Avenue, an equal distance from both of our apartments. He met me there and we sat on a bench and talked and laughed while we ate our cake.

"You have the strangest ideas!" He laughed as he leaned over me to throw his paper plate into the waste bin. "Going out for cake in the middle of the night!"

I suddenly couldn't resist. As he was leaning back in his seat, I reached out and held a piece of his hair hostage, twirling it gently around my finger. He was surprised but just half-closed his eyes and let me pet him. I suddenly felt brave.

"Jonathan?"

"Yes?" He murmured, still half asleep. He looked up at me when I didn't respond right away and I was swimming in his eyes. I was close enough to feel his breath on my chin. He parted his lips slightly as if to speak, but I held a finger up to his lips. He silenced and looked back into my eyes. I trailed my thumb across his lower lip slowly and something sparked in his eyes. I leaned down and kissed him, softly, slowly. He moved back against me and encouraged, I kissed him harder, flicking my tongue past his lips and into his mouth. He groaned and tangled his hands in my hair as I explored his mouth. When I pulled away softly, he made a small sound of protest but let go of my hair, preferring to let his hand fall onto my chest. I stroked a finger down his too-prominent collar bone and his breathing got ever-so-slightly heavier. He suddenly looked up at me and grinned.

"So, did you want to say something or did you just feel like exploring my tonsils?" I covered his smartass mouth with my own and went with him on the rail to drop him off at his apartment.

* * *

Three days later, I was in that apartment with him; or more specifically, in his bedroom. Fortunately, he has a bigger bed than I do or we might have had problems. I ended up sleeping at his apartment about six days a week and eventually moved in with him. None of the neighbors complained, fortunately. Our relationship grew and ended up as hard as a petrified rock. When I told him this, that I thought we were like a rock, he got a strange look in his eye, and agreed. We fit each other completely, two halves of a puzzle. When he came home drop-dead tired from work, I massaged the life back into his body. When I needed to vent about something that had happened at the bar that day, he was always there to curl up with me and help me realize that it wasn't a big deal, after all. Some nights we almost broke the box mattress, but mostly we just tangled ourselves up and kissed softly, whispering in each other's necks. I often laid awake in bed at night, looking down at his face as he slept, so innocent. Often he had nightmares, and woke up screaming and crying. I comforted him, sang him to sleep, stroked his wet hair until he fell back asleep in my arms. I had no doubt that this nightmare was the same specter that had leaped at him at the ice rink. Eventually he'll tell me what hunts him, I thought as he drifted off in my arms. Until then, I can wait.

Fin.


	4. Chapter 3 Filler

**(This is not Chapter 3…this is the plotline for the time being, until I get it done)**

I don't know if this will actually get written, as it has no real bearing on the plot of the rest of the story.

Chapter 3 synopsis:

This chapter's titled "Paper Crane", and it's mostly an internal monologue from Crane's point of view. He does a lot of comparing between himself and a paper crane, and wonders what would happen if he'd made a thousand different choices. Eventually he realizes that he likes where he is today (despite everything, though the Batman thing sucked) and he has to contend with the future as it is.


	5. Small Talk

**Small Talk (or, A Little Stupidity, A Lot of Love)**

Part Two of the East Gotham Trilogy

_Very, VERY AU. And Slashy! From Michael's POV. I take back what I said about "Making Ends Meet"...this is undoubtedly the worst in the series._

I murmured in his ear as we both came down and buried my face in his long dark hair. He sighed and wrapped his arms around my neck, entwining our legs together. The silence was only broken by the sounds of Gotham outside the window, and his soft breathing. Rain poured over the neon lights of the 24 hour restaurant across the street. He mumbled something into my neck.

"What?" I laughed as I extricated myself to look down at him.

He met my gaze with those extraordinary blue eyes. "I said 'I love you'."

I leaned down and kissed him slowly and softly, pushing his head back into the pillows. "I love you, too." I turned him over so his back was in my chest and draped my arm over his hip. He closed his eyes and I pressed my lips into his neck.

* * *

When I woke up the next morning Jonathan was already at work. Since the Batman had crashed Ra's Al Gul's party, he'd been out of a job. His laboratory had been trashed, and the man behind the funds was dead. He finally landed a job evaluating mental patients at a rather nice mental facility on the upper west end of Gotham. We'd both gone down on our knees and thanked whatever deity presided over this cursed city. Hooray for the ability to pay electric bills! I thought as I sipped the bitter coffee.

When I came home that night he was seated at the piano, his long translucent fingers ghosting over the ivory keys. A minor key, he sang softly in French, completely absorbed in his music. The neon lights cast an eerie glow over the room. I set my sack of groceries on the countertop and came up behind him silently. He started slightly as I wrapped my arms around him from behind and kissed his neck.

* * *

It was my turn to wash the dishes, but he dried them to keep me company tonight. Something was bothering him.

"Bad day at work?"

He threw me a quick smile and uttered a noncommittal "Mm." I reached out and stroked my hand down the back of his head. He smiled again and moved away to put the dishes back in their cupboard. "Well, I'm settling in. It's just…" He trailed off, gazing unseeingly at the 7 o'clock traffic mired in the rain.

"Different?" I supplied. He nodded slowly, mechanically, then pressed a hand to his head. I took his hand and led him back to bed, got in and looked at him. He took off his glasses and draped an arm over his eyes.

"Want to talk?"

He opened his eyes and gazed dully at the ceiling. "What about?"

I struggled for words. It was the wrong time, the wrong place to be asking about the Scarecrow. He had a headache and a bad day at work. It was bad timing all over the place, and yet here it was. There was nothing for it.

I sighed. "I want to know…how you became involved with Ra's Al Ghul and his mates."

There was a long silence. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, replaced his glasses.

"I thought this might be coming soon." I ran the side of my index finger down the bridge of his fine nose and rested my hand on his chest. He spoke then, slowly and haltingly, striving for details.

"I suppose it all began in the usual way…with a lot of stupidity…and a little bit of greed, yes. Then outright cowardice…and love."

* * *

"I am 26 years old and I have my Master's degree. I've had it for a few years, actually. I was always a little ahead of the curve, I guess you could say. It didn't make me popular in school, but that's not the point. I received my diploma from West Gotham School of Medicine three years ago and set off into the world. Young and naïve, I worked various jobs of little importance. I got a job as a professor at Gotham University for a brief spell, my dream job, but I was fired later on. They didn't want me to teach a certain branch of psychiatry, but I was adamant about the credibility of its foundation. In the end, the dean wouldn't deal with my insubordination, and dismissed me. I wandered through the city's psychiatric department in jobs with no clout, no ambition, and I was resentful and unhappy.

"Then I was approached by a tall man with a wispy beard. His name was Henri Ducard and he was impressed with my so-called 'aptitude' with the mind. You see…as a child, I was already fascinated with fear, I dwelled on it, it wasn't healthy, the extent that I thought of it. Yet I did. I carried this obsession with me through college and graduate school, I honed it, I observed people's phobias, I hounded the Gotham librarians for just a scrap more information. A fixation. Anyway. Ducard. He came to me and asked if I wanted a job where I would have 'opportunities'. I was interested. I was incredibly stupid." His expression was frustrated. He took off his glasses and glared through them at the ceiling.

"He took me to a building down in the city, an unremarkable place, no signs. Though I thought I should be cautious, I squashed my premonitions. This man was offering me what I wanted most, I could feel it. Inside the building, past the guards (again, something I should have taken a clue from), was a laboratory. And what a laboratory it was. As I ran my hands over the machines, I could feel his eyes in the back of my head. I should have waited, not let on to my excitement, known that he would not give this knowledge without a price. I didn't, naturally. I fit their bill entirely, the young, stupid scientist. I was in love with the machines. This was technology I never in my wildest dreams imagined I'd get within fifty feet of! All right in front of me. They had me and they knew it.

"They took me up to a room and asked if I wanted to work for them. I hesitated for a moment, and asked after the terms of this agreement. I was told that I would be able to use all of the resources of their company if I would help them create certain pharmaceutical experiments to test for the government. I never asked to see their government licenses, never thought for a second I wasn't doing something for someone other than Gotham herself.

"A year passed and I had created nearly thirty new gasses and perfected numerous intimidation methods. I was truly happy to be locked up with these chemicals and with my notebook, researching, mesmerized by this knowledge. Greedy for this knowledge. Then the call came for me to meet with Ducard and some of his supervisors. Trembling, I answered their call. They praised me for my inventions and gave me a raise. Then they asked me the thing that gave me my first pause.

"They wanted me to perform my tactics and experiment with my gasses on live subjects. I balked immediately. Use these things on people? That was the original intent of the project, I suppose, but I wasn't fully prepared to be the one administering the medicines. Ducard insisted that this was morally acceptable, since I would be testing these tactics on inmates set for death row. This was hardly worse than death, he reasoned, and they would be able to choose between death and the experiments. I relented.

"Another year passed, and with it came the realization that these were no longer criminals that I was testing these methods on. They were normal people, taken off the streets. I arranged a meeting with Ducard, scandalized and perturbed. His words were much more careful this time, his eyes boring into mine, calculating. I began to feel afraid. He once again reasoned with me that these were hobos, bums, people nobody would miss. I balked still. He invited me to come with him on a walk. On the way down the stairwell, he smashed his fist into my face and cracked my head on the wall, then threw me down the rest of the stairs. I saw stars, I was shaking with the pain. He came down and put my head in his lap, stroked my hair, and reasoned with me, no, hypnotized me. I was vibrating with fear. I agreed to continue testing on these subjects. And so, you see, the cowardice comes into play. I was too afraid for myself to give up my life to get out while I still could," he spat. He breathed quietly for a few seconds. Then a very soft, faint smile spread on his lips.

"And then I met you." The tender smile grew. "You mesmerized me…I fell completely in love; with you, I wasn't afraid anymore. As we grew together, you moved in here. I was overwhelmed…in a good way. But then I guess you became suspicious about my work. It must have begun when I came home with that broken arm that one night, you remember? After taking me to the hospital and back again, you grilled me forever on how it had happened." I remembered that night clearly. His story was as maimed as his arm and I couldn't understand why. Eventually I put him to bed and pondered by the window. Yes, that was the night I really began to wonder about his work.

"Well, the arm was more of Ducard's arm-twisting, if you'll excuse the pun. You became increasingly inquisitive about how my day was, what I was working on recently. I treaded more and more carefully. I didn't want you involved with this circle." His voice dropped, sounding exhausted. He adjusted his glasses and went on, "Then you followed me to work one day. I came out, tired after a long day at work and there you were, waving at me. I closed my eyes, it couldn't be you! But it was. I was more afraid in that moment than I'd ever been in my entire life. You bounded up to me, and I took your arm and dragged you away, desperate to get you away from those prying eyes that promised and took everything! You were surprised and hurt, and it broke my heart to greet you so coldly. On the train home, I was forced to explain to you that you couldn't come see me at work, because I was working for the government and they would be suspicious to see you hanging around. I lied. I _lied_ to you!" He shrieked, wrapping his arms around himself. I scooted closer to him and stroked his too-prominent cheekbone.

"You accepted this story and everything was fine after that…well, on the home front it was fine. But the skies were darkening on Project Gotham. Ducard called me into his office one final time and explained to me his master plan. I was horrified. For hours we argued, volleying back and forth. He threatened me, he hit me, he promised great things. I wouldn't give in, finally, I wouldn't budge. It took me until I was killing 6 million people instead of six to grow a backbone, but I did. Then…"

He cut off abruptly, then turned his back on me. I watched in surprise as he curled up, wrapping his arms low around his stomach and tucking his chin into his chest.

"What?"

He shook his head.

"Jonathan."

He sighed. "Think. When we go to movies, what's the one card the bad guy always plays to get his way? What does he threaten, who does he take?" He drew in a shaky breath. Horror crawled like a living beast in my guts. Surely not. I put my hands on him and whispered,

"Me?"

He didn't answer. I turned him over with immense difficulty and tears were flowing down his chin and onto his neck.

"Shh…shh, come on babe, he didn't get me, he never would have, don't be silly!"

He shook his head violently.

"He took me into his office and showed me pictures he had taken of us the day you came to the factory to pick me up. He had been the one to watch us at the ice rink that one day, remember? I saw him and whipped around so hard I would have fallen if you hadn't caught me. He showed me on his computer that he had carefully documented your patterns, where we lived, when you went outside to get groceries, when you came back to the apartment after work, _where_ you worked, everything. He expanded on how he would kidnap you, where he would take you…what he would do to you." He grabbed me suddenly around the neck and breathed in my scent, trying to calm himself. I stroked his back until he went on.

"He gave me a week to consider. Every day of that week he brought me to his office where he had some poor sod off the streets. Every day he demonstrated to me what he was capable of. I watched in horror…they died, excruciatingly, painfully, praying for death's merciful end. Every night for a week I sweated and dreamed, trying to conjure a way out of it. In my dreams, we ran away on a train, we faced him alone, we called the police, everything. But they would all turn into him chasing us, catching us, hurting you." He groaned. "Every time I woke up screaming and crying, you were there, holding me. Just like you're holding me now. On the night before my week was up I had the worst nightmare of them all. You remember. I tried to throw myself out the window, I was in such a terror. I could have sworn you were dead! You held me down and screamed at me to come to my senses. When I did, there you were. I reached up for you, and you carried me back to bed and sang to me until I fell asleep. There I made my decision. I would have done anything, anything to keep you safe. And so it was.

"I went back to Ducard and told him I was still behind the project. He gave me a tiny smile and more patients. I buried myself in work and desperately tried not to think about what I was doing. In short, Batman foiled the plan. I came back to the apartment dirty and covered with bruises and you were asleep on the couch. I sat by you and just looked at you. You woke up…" He trailed off, drained. I hushed him softly, but he pressed on.

"You woke up and asked me how work was. I told you I was done with it forever… and then I told you what I had done. You stared off into space for a long time, then went for a walk. I curled up with your pillow and worked myself into such a fit that I was throwing up when you came back in. You held my hair back and kissed my neck until I was done. I couldn't believe that you were still…wanting to be near me. You never blamed me for what I had done. You didn't leave me. I was waiting for you to tell me to get out, but instead you climbed into bed and made love to me until I forgot my fear. And the rest is history."

His head was nestled in the crook of my arm. I lay there for what seemed like an eternity. He raised himself up and looked at me, tense and anticipating…what? I stared at the ceiling and breathed, "Thank you, God."

He furrowed his brow. "What?"

I looked down at him and ran my fingers through his hair. "Nothing."

"Oh."

"Jonathan."

"Hm?"

"I love you."

A tear escaped his eye and ran down his cheek. I brushed it away with my thumb and he gave a thrill of exhausted laughter. He reached up and grabbed me by the hair, bringing my lips down to his.

"I love you, too."

Fin.


	6. Bittersweet Revenge

**Bittersweet Revenge**

_From Crane's POV! A little background info: Those two antagonists mentioned in the Ch. 1 synopsis? They've been caught at the scene of a crime, and are protesting a prison stay. Jonathan watches from the shadows. Onward!_

"You can't hold us in the prison! I'm under strict medical plans! I need to be held in a non-hostile environment!" The voice I knew so well, taunting, mocking, digging into your skin like splinters; and here were the two men who had destroyed me. Caught in a robbery. Evading justice once again with an insanity plea. Oh, I had seen it before, but before I had been impartial.

_It is time_

"We'll see. Officer Brady, please telephone Dr. Crane at Arkham Asylum and we'll see about your so-called inability to function in a prison environment." I had all of the psychological reports of the citizens of Gotham…many, in fact, I had memorized. But still, phone me over this? After hours? Arkham was shut down for the night, the wards safely – God willing – in bed and asleep. What did they think I was? A traveling shrink at their beck and call? They didn't know that I was already there, hiding in the shadows, torn.

_For my bittersweet revenge._

"Crane?" asks Deke, "What's his first name?" And I can see the thrill of premonitory dread that traces itself down his spine.

"Jonathan. He's the warden of the asylum." The cop snarls at him.

"Arkham's not answering," states Officer Brady. No kidding. We're closed, stupid.

"Jonathan Crane?" The wheels in Deke's fat head are turning. Soon, soon there will be…

Dawning recognition.

_I swore I'd get you back for it…the day you threw me into the mud in front of everyone. The day you caught me in the alley and took my dignity from me…no! I will not do this again!_

"What?" Obberton's rat face, repugnant in its obliviousness, peers at Deke through the semidarkness.

"Daaaamn…it can't be…you remember him?"

"No."

"Anorexic kid with the strange hair and glasses. Sat in front of you in Pharmaceuticals 409. Never talked to anyone, remember? We threw his stuff out the window into the river that one time. Actually, we threw **him** in the river a few times. Ha, ha!"

"Uhhh…"

"Come on. We tormented this kid for eight years. You kept a tally of how many times you could beat him up. What did you call him…skeleton? No…uh…"

I step out into the circle of police lights. "I believe it was… 'Scarecrow'."

The crowd melts away from me.

_You made me who I am!_

A part of me just wants to assign this ordeal to Doctor Yang. After all, she deals with the criminally insane just as much as I. She is more than qualified.

_My fear of humanity comes from people like you!_

**And it will spare you the hurt**, a part of my brain whispers. Hurt? I just want to see them fall! Beg for mercy…wish they'd never laid a hand on me. Feel like I felt that day…the day I realized that there truly was nothing but fear. It won't hurt me to destroy them.

_I want to rip you apart._

That damnable portion of my conscious whispers for me to have mercy on their souls. Out of the corner of my eye I see Rachel Dawes watching me. Wonderful. Ammunition for my enemies, poison for my soul.

_Because I can still see a boy…no! Just be silent…_

I want to make them suffer like they made me suffer. I died every day for eight long years at their hands, why should I have mercy!

_Weasel your way out of this one._

I don't know what I want anymore. As I grow older – and I am not old – I grow more tired of this constant burning, blinding pain, hurt, rage. Impotent. It uses me up from the inside and tosses me aside when it's done…a piece of refuse is this body. As I step out of the alleyway, and people begin to notice me and poke one another, the policeman brings the crooks around to face me. And they face me. My tormenters, the embodiment of my despair. They are the wardens of my fear, as I am the warden of the Asylum. How ironic. My glasses glint on their faces and I can see the still-familiar smirk on Obberton's face.

_Sweet,_

"Well, well. Johnny boy. Still creepy, isn't he Deke? I heard you're running the nuthouse now…good place for you." Still creepy, am I? Creepy! You will see me in your wildest nightmares.

Deke looks at me with more caution, and I see that he realizes that the tables have turned. All of my young life I have dreamt of this moment, to conquer those who forced me into my shell.

_Sweet_

"I can't analyze them here. If you'll bring them to Arkham, please, officers, I can begin the evaluation."

_Revenge._


	7. Sweet Hallucinations

Sweet Hallucinations

_A/N: This is my favorite :) This chapter is the only reason I've put the rest of them up. Hope you like! From Jonathan's POV. He quotes Shakespeare a lot in this one. Direct sequel to Bittersweet Revenge. Rating goes up for this chapter's use of swear words :)_

Some say that I am obsessed with my work and it is true; I am both possessed by it and fanatical about it. I gallivant down the mysterious pathway of the mind with my flashlight and my notebook and my fear. Wordlessly I wander, stripping myself bare, inlaid with madness. Oh, I am mad. But I am so sane at the same time. I journey through the neuroses of the human spirit to the driving force of us all: Fear. It is fear. The survival instinct stems from fear, social habits are honed by the unpleasant sensation that we won't belong. Sexual habits, conversation topics, conformity, all stem from sheer apprehension. I look inwards to find out fear's secrets. I will conquer it, I will master it. _Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't. _Yet it seems to me lately that I have failed in my work.

As a defense mechanism, those who are preyed upon tend to focus their thoughts on revenge as a way to strive for their own dignity. For instance, if one were…raped… one might well reflect long on his possible revenge, how he would take it with pleasure, relishing the screams of his tormentors. This I believed for a long time. In fact, I only stopped believing it at the top of this hour.

It is midnight at Arkham Asylum, my castle and my reformatory. The stone walls weep with the condensation of the wet June night, or are they weeping for the populace they contain? After all this time dwelling and toiling day after day, I find myself unsurprised by most things in life. I even stopped feeling sick when I am called on ambulance rotation, for a broken body is far easier to stomach than a broken mind.

The two men strapped to their chairs inside the room through whose door I am peering are nervous, I know. Yet I will not go to them. I have found I can't. Why? _Now is the winter of our discontent. _They await my judgment, for their fate is in my hands. I can master them, but will they torment me still? I tip my forehead against the glass and look into the faces I know so well. They cannot see me, but still they open my old wounds. Obberton's rat face. Cruel laughter spewing forth from his mouth as the cold concrete sands my skin down. Rain falling on the garbage cans. Deke. Mostly all I saw of him was his shoes. Now I hate blue and white trainers. They make me sick. Trainers splattered with mud, standing over me.

There is wetness on my hand, and as I blink down at the perfect small dot, more join it. Shit! This is not supposed to happen, I am strong, I am OVER THIS! I curse mindlessly and the walls heave. I almost heave. Why can't I finish what they started? I thought I would delight in it, take my vengeance, they should be my lab rats to match their feckless faces. _Out, damned spot! _The diamond pattern of the small window blurs in and out and behind it, Deke laughs at something Obberton says. He laughs! He does not fear me and I cannot destroy him! The realization hits me; I double up, curling my arms around my abdomen to hold me together, and a soundless scream boils up my esophagus. There is a vortex in my brain and all I can think is how much I want to hurt myself. I want to spill my blood in rivers so that the water mains of Arkham run crimson from it, to peal my skin away from my skull and hang it in bloody shards on the laundry lines of Gotham, yes, tear asunder my limbs so they mirror my mind! My fear is all that makes sense to me. And that makes sense to me.

Without my fear, who am I? Without my hallucinations, what do I have to hold on to? These are my scars, they weep and moan. The inside of my body drips and chars and waxes rhetoric on my life while I spin subconscious circles around my heart. In the center of the web, I lust for my own blood. I yearn for my own destruction; I worship this nest of madness for I know it will take me. I want to bleed and die and have them stare into my glassy eyes and know the madness within, and the worst part is they won't say anything at all.

I stumble down the parched white hallway and the walls move under my hand like horrible white whales plunging to the depths.

"Release them to the officers downstairs," I intone to my assistant, "They are fine." They are fine. They are FINE! Without waiting for him to verify that he heard me, I am already down the stairs and out into the driving rain. I lurch through the sodden gravel and thump into the door of my car, fumbling for the lock. Broken my life, and they laugh at it all. _Oh villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! _My eyes are nearly useless as I drive home, they are wide and white with the horror of it all. I barely make it home and a part of me wishes I had driven off the bridge and into the polluted, gorging river. It would swallow me like a shark.

The wooden walls of the apartment building's stairwell don't twist and howl like Arkham's walls. They whisper to me and I can't hear what they're saying. Are you mad, Horatio? _There are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy…_ I am quite mad, I quoth the Bard. I am beyond the veil of madness, its naked eye glares at me and maps my path with its bulging veins. Now all it can do is wash me away in a river of tears. The four flights of stairs never took so long. I am exhausted and my mind is limp and quiet. It is not an improvement. Now I can see no way out. It is rather as if I was running in circles in an arena before and now I just stand in the middle and look at the ground. _Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me… _

Drained beyond measure I open the door to the apartment. Suddenly, a light on my face and strong arms around me. He backs me up against the door and crushes me to him as if he wants to fold my body into his. I shudder against him. I wish the same. His scent washes over me and it breaks my traitorous cycle of thoughts. He whispers something in my ear over and over and I don't know what he's saying but it helps. _As constant as the northern star… _I open my eyes slowly and the warm light of the hallway lamp winks down at me over his shoulder. He cradles me in his arms and abruptly the knots in my stomach release me and I am shaking. The aftereffects of a nervous breakdown. My arms around his neck, fingers in his hair and I feel warmth again.

In his arms I endure. Though I be but a spent bullet, I have found my way home. Though I tear with fury at my veins and my eyes, he sews me together again and again. Though I walk in madness I hold hands with the light. _Journeys end in lovers meeting, __Every wise man's son doth know._

Fin.


	8. Making Ends Meet

**Making Ends Meet**

_A/N: The last chapter! I hope you've enjoyed it so far. After the psychosis of the last chapter, Jonathan's getting a special gift and giving something else away. Hooray, catharsis!_

Of course, the rain started just as soon as I stepped off of the train. I shivered and turned up the collar of my suit coat, ducked my head and steeled myself for the seven blocks of wind and wet to our apartment. Around me, people scurried like ants. Afraid of the storm, the noise, wanting to get home. Ordinarily I'd be fascinated. I kept my eyes on my shoes as they splashed through puddles. _I can't believe I left the umbrella_. No doubt there would be an I-told-you-so kind of smirk from a certain someone when I got home. The realization brought a smile to my face and I walked a bit faster. It was our anniversary today; well, at least, the anniversary on which we'd first met. Two blocks to go…one…sidewalk, that damn potted plant that never got enough light to become anything but a yellow bucket of waste. Up four flights of stairs, down four doors. Key in the lock, thank God! I was home.

I hung up my drenched coat on one of the pegs in the hall.

"Ah, is somebody a widdle dwenched? Heehee!" I turned to the source of the laughter and gave him a scathing look, which, naturally, made him laugh harder. "Did poor widdle Jonathan forget his umbwella?" Snarling, I tackled my offender. I caught him off balance and we thumped to the floor. He came out swinging and we wrestled halfway across the room. We bumped up against the sofa and he used it to his advantage, pinning me underneath him, his eyes bright with the victory.

"Welcome home," he murmured, brushing his lips over mine. I smiled at him. The peaceful moment was rudely interrupted by the oven's timer.

"Shit," he snarled, and heaved himself off me and into the kitchen. I changed my clothes in the bedroom and scrubbed a towel through my hair. When I came out, he had set the table and was lighting candles, of all things. Such a silly romantic, I thought. But that's what brought me to him, wasn't it? He is the yin to my yang.

We sat down to eat and talked about the little things that you hear at any dinner table; work, friends, gossip about his large and highly dysfunctional family. Though I couldn't really talk about dysfunctional families, considering my own. I realized with a start that he was bouncing his leg up and down, and his pupils were dilated. Years of experience taught me the signals. He was afraid of something. What? I looked around but couldn't see any of his usual phobias (wasps and teakettles).

"Uhm. Jonathan? Er…I –"

Wasn't this interesting. He never stuttered. I leaned down to catch his eyes and smiled at him. "What?"

He steeled himself, his jaw more defined. He got up and came over to me, taking my hands in his. I felt a flutter in my stomach. No way.

"This last year has been the happiest of my life. I've never spent as much time with another person as I have with you, and I have treasured every second. I want to be with you for the rest of my life." He kneeled, took a small box out of his pocket and opened it. "Will you marry me?" I was stunned, but only for one second. With a yelp, I flung myself onto him and wrapped my arms around his neck. All I could think of was, _yes! Yes! Yes!_ I suppose I got these sentiments out of my rebellious mouth because he was laughing and kissing me. He rolled me over onto my back and grabbed the ring box from where it had fallen, rather unceremoniously, onto the floor. It was a beautiful ring, I thought as I admired it from where he had placed it on my finger. Plain gold, engraved with our names on the inside. I spent the next few minutes in a fit of completely un-scientist-like giggles.

That night as we made love, I realized that I would have this man for the rest of my life, and I smiled into his kiss. This would be all that I ever needed, this was my world in this shoddy apartment next to this man. With a start, I realized that I had said that about one other constant in my life…my fear. The mask. The Scarecrow. But thoughts of the mask were always the furthest from my mind when I was with him. Did I truly need to hang on to this monster inside of me? Could I just be Doctor Jonathan Crane, psychiatrist, without the outlet of madness and pain waiting for revenge on the world?

My tormenters had come to me and I had had my revenge, but still I felt so cold. I had gained nothing by hurting them, I felt no less hurt and angry about what had happened so many years ago. I didn't even torture the architects of my despair, I simply tied them up and stared at them and pondered. Was I too much of a coward to hurt them back? When I got home I was nearly mad with the inability to cope with my past, but as I walked through the doors I was enveloped in a gentle hug by my boyfriend. I suddenly felt the shadows receding. He had chased away my loneliness, he had wrestled with my nightmares, held me when I couldn't take it anymore. He was all I needed. I was done with revenge.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and clear, and he went whistling off to work. The fates had aligned themselves to give me the day off. As I showered, I reflected on what I had to do. There was no place I could put the mask that I couldn't get to it again, and easily enough. Though I had recognized that my dream of defeating my fears entirely was fruitless, I would want the mask again when I was challenged or belittled or afraid. There was only one course of action in my mind as I dressed and dropped the mask into a brown grocery bag. Someone I knew would have to keep it for me, in a place that I couldn't get to it until I could be trusted not to want it anymore. 

I stood on the corner of West St. Peter's and 9th Avenue and reached into the bag. Out came the mask with its leering grin and its seams. I had sewed it myself, as one could easily guess by looking at it. Behind this mask I had deluded myself into thinking that I had conquered my fears, when all I had been doing was running from them. A certain someone had made that clear to me a long time ago. The mask disappeared into the bag again. The "walk" light glared at me from across the street, and I made my way to the rail station.

* * *

Rachel Dawes was seated behind her desk, filling out the drudgery that was her post-trial paperwork. She wished with all her might that something interesting would happen in the next few minutes. She took it back a second later. 

"What do you want?" She half-snarled as the skeletal man stood in her doorway. She regarded him for a minute while he struggled internally. As the silence grew, so did her surprise.

"Uh…did you want to sit down?" Maybe if she was polite, he'd get it over with and leave her alone…that is, if he wasn't planning on analyzing her, or spraying her with fear gas.

Jonathan Crane shook his head violently at her question and took a few more steps into the room, up to her desk. It was then that she realized that he had a grocery sack with him. "What's in the bag? You're being even more bizarre than usual, Doctor Crane." A thin smile came to his lips, and he carefully placed the bag on her desk.

Rachel gave Crane the fish eye. "What is in the bag?"

"A gift." He spoke for the first time.

"For me?"

"I suppose."

"Uh…thank you." She gingerly took hold of the parcel by the straps at the top and moved it into her lap. She reached in, expecting to come face to face with her worst phobia. OK. It was something soft. It wasn't attacking. She slowly brought it into the light of the office and stared at the specter before her. Crane gave her a hollow grin.

"Do you like it?"

"What is the meaning of this!" She regarded him with one finger braced against the "Call Security" button underneath her desk. He didn't look at her, but rather at the mask. His arms were folded around himself protectively. _If he could see himself right now, he'd have a million things to say about body language. _Although she had asked what his intentions were, Rachel thought she knew already. Four weeks ago, she had watched Crane come face to face with his childhood tormenters. She had watched his face; it held none of the glee of the conquering champion. This must be a reaction to these men from the past. And sure enough…

"I…don't want the Scarecrow inside me anymore. He's not me, he's not!" He spoke as if to convince himself. "He used to be but I have something else now, something better and I don't want him anymore. I've tasted my revenge…it wasn't what I thought it would be… after all of these years. So you take him where he can't get to me anymore, lock him up, burn him and scatter the ashes!"

Alarmed by this outburst from the inscrutable man, Rachel thought for a few moments and looked at the mask. "You're saying… that you're giving up the Scarecrow. Forever."

"Yes."

"I will keep it for you."

"Thank you." He gave her a faint smile.

"You said you had something else now…?" She called after him as he turned into the hallway. He paused and turned around, raising his left hand as he did so to show her a beautiful gold ring on his ring finger.

Rachel laughed softly. Love could change everything. "Congratulations. Who is it?"

He smiled for real this time. "A very special man."

"He must be. I hope you two will be very happy together."

He smiled again, nodded a farewell, and walked out of her office. The door swished shut behind him.

Rachel sighed and put her face in her hands. After a few minutes, she dialed the phone.

* * *

"Wayne residence." 

"Hello Alfred, this is Rachel. May I speak to Bruce, please?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

"Rachel?"

"Hello Bruce."

"What's going on?"

"I just had a very interesting conversation with our favorite psychiatrist…"

* * *

I walked home. Thirty-seven blocks north, seventeen blocks east. I felt numb as I realized that I had given up a part of me that I had held onto since I was in the fourth grade. What would happen to Jonathan Crane now? I couldn't say. I had a job. I had a fourth story apartment with a view of neon signs. I had a fiancée who had already gone to the ends of the world for me. Now I was like any other Gotham resident, just trying to make ends meet. 

The End.


End file.
